Of Inukshuks and a Stroll Through the Park
by Jim Carrier

Around Noon, sunshine disintegrated the mass of gray cloud into white puffs and blue sky. Ben stirred and slowly emerged from his cocoon. Choking down some oatmeal, he sleepily allowed me to hustle him down to our canoe. It was packed with fishing gear and ready for deployment to the nearby Maligne River. We paddled there quickly, stashing our canoe just off the portage. Marching to the other side with poles, stringer, and white plastic grubs in hand, we were determined to put fish into the pot that gorgeous afternoon. Fishing each set of rapids thoroughly, we worked our way riverside back to our canoe. Yes, indeed, there would be Walleye on the table tonight!

Smallmouth action was so engrossing that it was late in the afternoon before we noticed ominous dark clouds gathering on the northern horizon. “Ben”, I said, “I think that storm is going to blow north of us, but it wouldn’t hurt to head back, just in case.” Ben agreed. With our catch in hand, we retrieved our canoe and paddled back at double-time. Our island hillock campsite was abuzz with activity as we approached. Gary and Ed rapidly hauled in laundry. Clearly they were battening down the hatches, expecting a big blow. Ben held up our catch proudly. Gary acknowledged but pointed at the darkening sky. I announced for all to hear, “It’ll blow north of us!”

I jumped out of the canoe, threaded my way down the rocky shoreline, and started cleaning fish. Gary followed, shouting into the rising wind, “Hey Flash! We’d better flip these canoes and hustle back to camp!” Again, I asserted, “It’ll blow north of us!” The slack-jawed, wide-eyed look of incredulity that came over my brother’s face was familiar. Seven years earlier, I saw that same face when I informed Gary we would take a “shortcut” off of a long portage into Cache Lake. My shortcut resulted in our getting lost in cold, dark, damp, remote wilderness. Yes, the very same expression crossed his face now. This time, however, Gary unflinchingly pointed towards camp and commanded “UP!!” We flipped the canoes and, dutifully, I marched ahead of my younger brother up the hill and into camp. We arrived barely in time.

My fondest memory of that wild stormy evening is of Gary and Big Ed, each holding violently whipping edges of my parabolic overhead tarp with one white-knuckled hand while sipping Scotch from a cup held in the other. The storm raged. Lightening, accompanied by instantaneous thunder, flashed in every direction. Forty mile-per-hour gusts drove rain and quarter-inch hail sideways with a roaring whoosh. Ben and I, huddled together under our more protective Dry Fly a mere ten feet away, were unable to make out words the big guys were shouting. As it turned out, they weren’t shouting at all. Rather, when the wind eased up, we recognized their singing, “Glow little glow worm, glitter, glitter… Glow little glow worm, glitter, glitter !” Later, as the hailstorm ebbed, they shouted, in unison, “Hey Flash! This storm will blow north of us! Go fix dinner!” Toasting the weather, they tipped their cups of Scotch once more and launched into another tune.

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Jim Carrier